


Until Death Do Us Part

by ferowyn



Series: Hobbit Kink [23]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: BardXThranduil, Barduil - Freeform, F/M, I mean it, Let me warn you, M/M, Prompt Fill, and please do ignore the timeline, like vomiting-rainbows-fluffy, this is ridiculously fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 18:25:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3144134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferowyn/pseuds/ferowyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon meeting Thranduil, Bard is fascinated. No matter his aloofness, his beauty may hardly be surpassed. It is only when they meet to discuss impending matters, however, that Bard realizes how beautiful Thranduil really is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until Death Do Us Part

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Hobbit Kink Meme fill for this prompt:  
> http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=24310645#t25048693  
> which got slightly out of hand.
> 
> I am shipping those two so hard right now.

### Until Death Do Us Part

Thranduil is more beautiful than anyone or anything you have ever seen. (And you have seen plenty of woodelves in your people’s dealings with them, thank you very much, although never before the King himself.)

The blonde carries himself in a way not even Thorin Oakenshield can measure up to, and his features, though looking like set in stone, are beatific and ageless and far away all at once.

He brings aid, which is dearly needed – and yet you find yourself staring at the King instead of what he offers, which those of your men who have survived the dragon’s attack quickly distribute. As long as Alfrid has no hand in it you trust that those who will need it most will be served first, thus you allow yourself to stay, transfixed by the _phenomenon_ Thranduil, son of Oropher, is in this desolated, ruined city of men.

Being told that this seemingly elysian being is not here for you and yours is no surprise, really, no matter how it might hurt, painfully reminding you of your terrible mortality.

Truly, you must be no more than an ant to an immortal like Thranduil, King of Mirkwood.

Thus you simply bow your head at this, expressing your thanks again, and watch over your men – who have made you their leader at some point, without your consent. Never have you wished to lead anyone, not after what happened to your father; however, some things have to be done.

You keep quiet, and watch, and admire from a distance – until the elves begin to march for the Mountain.

And no matter how small and inadequate you might be feeling, there are also some things that simply _cannot_ be done.

Going to war over some gems, and with one of the parties thusly outnumbered at that, you count among them.

“You would try to reason with the dwarf?” Thranduil asks, disbelievingly, and his voice is like honey, sweet and promising, but at the same time so terribly aloof and impersonal.

“To avoid war? Yes!”

It would not be fair to call you desperate, you think, but you are not far from it.

The elven King frowns, his smooth forehead creasing in ways that look to be unnatural, but inclines his head in acceptance.

“Very well. My servants shall set up a tent. As you claimed us to be allies in this, I expect you to be present as soon as your duties allow. Circumstances like these call for discussions. If we are to stand together, many matters need to be addressed. Since you have been speaking for your people so far, I assume you are their leader?”

Your muttered “unfortunately” would not be heard by men; however, from the way one corner of pale lips is twitching when you confirm this it was not too low to be picked up by elven ears.

Thranduil departs then, riding wherever he is planning to leave that elk of his, and you take a deep breath, trying to shake off the stupor that has befallen you and banishing the picture of the King from your mind, before leaving to find your children. They are most precious to you, and it is as much your duty as it is your desire to make sure no ill ever befalls them.

You spend the next hours looking after everyone, making sure that the wounded and young are being cared for, and taking one of the fishermen you trust the most to the side. Njord listens to your whispered request without interrupting, and nods his confirmation after you have explained what you fear needs to be done. From the elven King’s demeanour he is expecting this to end in battle no matter your attempts to prevent that very outcome, and with your heart heavy you watch as Njord leaves to fetch his son, Týr, before sending him off to where the former armoury of Dale lies, still mostly intact.

You share a short glance with this man you would call your dearest friend and strongest ally before sending Bain after Týr to aid him in accounting for the weapons left, and then slowly make your way over to where you have seen the elves’ tent.

Stepping into it your gaze immediately falls upon Thranduil, who is sitting on a delicate chair in a corner, a chalice in his long fingers. His piercing eyes find you the moment you set foot inside and he rises, a tiny smile playing around his lips.

“I was beginning to wonder whether you were going to join me at all,” he remarks as he pours what seems to be wine into a second chalice, moving to offer it to you. It is clearly a reprimand, no matter how well it is hidden beneath the smooth voice and the invitation.

“My people have nothing left. While your immense generosity has saved us from the problem of starvation for the time being, there are still many wounded and exhausted, and all are in shock. I might not have chosen to lead them, but they put their faith in me. It is my duty now to care for them as well as I can,” you manage to explain even as you reach out to accept the chalice.

“And I do believe you would have done it even had they not selected you to stand for them,” Thranduil replies, voice even smoother than before, holding no trace of the resentment from before.

It would have taken your breath, a tiny part of your mind assesses, had this not been the first time you see the elven King’s eyes from up close, which capture all of your concentration.

They are of a shade of blue you have never before come upon, and ages upon ages of experience and wisdom are written deeply into the two seas which seem to have no bottom. No wind is rippling the surface, yet you can easily imagine that, when angered, hurricanes might be whipping up waves and swirls.

You would gladly drown in those eyes.

“It has come to my attention,” the honey voice tears you from your frozen thoughts, and you cannot keep your cheeks from reddening slightly when you realize that you have been _staring_ “that I have not been given your name yet – although, if the bow you are carrying is any indication, I would venture a guess as to who might have been your ancestor, especially considering that you have been chosen the leader of your people.”

You feel humbled to stand next to this warrior in his shining armour while you are wearing the coat your beloved wife sowed for you many years ago, which you have been mending and re-mending time after time, no matter your noble ancestry. Never have you felt that small as now, staring at the beautiful King who is not that much taller than you, and yet seems to be towering you in every aspect.

Pale blond hair is floating in soft waves, framing fine features of pale skin and pale blue eyes, sparkling with the same amusement shown on twitching pale red lips.

Holding on to the delicate silver chalice you close your eyes for a moment, desperately trying to regain your composure, before straightening your shoulders. “I am Bard, son of Girion, Lord of Dale, as you seem to have guessed already.”

There is a real smile gracing those beautiful lips now, and your breath is taken away.

“I suspected so indeed, although I did not know your name. Tell me, Bard, son of Girion, do you have children of your own?”

You hugely dislike being called _son of Girion_ for it reminds you of your loss as much as of his failure, and you would rather like to be seen as your own person, not as someone’s son. However, there is no way you can deny Thranduil an answer if he seeks it, and no matter the shame and pain when you think of your father, unmistakable pride is colouring your voice when you talk of your own children.

“My son Bain, and my daughters Sigrid and Tilda.”

“It is for them, then, that you are attempting to reason with the dwarf.”

It as a statement, not a question, and as Thranduil motions for you to take a seat you comply, nodding as the King returns to his own chair.

“I have fought many battles for my son’s sake, with words and weapons. Now he fights his own, and I do not know whether to be relieved and proud that he has grown to be such a fine warrior, or disappointed that he does not need me anymore,” the beautiful blonde reveals casually, still it is easy for you to see the painful truth behind that statement.

“I do not think children ever stop needing their parents, no matter their age or abilities,” you quietly answer, taking a first, careful sip of the wine.

The scent is familiar, from the many barrels you have taken across the lake. Never before, however, have you tasted the wine and now that you do you find that you quite like it. Heavy and sweet, the taste as unreal as the elven King himself, it leaves pleasure on your tongue and warmth in your stomach.

“I see our wine is to your liking,” Thranduil remarks, clearly amused, before his deep eyes grow wistful once again. “You are right, I suppose. No matter my age and experience, more than once have I found myself wishing that my father were still here, so that I might ask him for advice, or hear of his approval. You were quite young, I take it, when you lost Girion? I have to admit, I have not counted the years since the dragon came.”

You try your best not to flinch at this remainder of his immortality, and your own inadequacy.

“I did not know my father for long,” you acknowledge none the less, and take another sip of the wine.

The elf inclines his beautiful head. “I am sorry for your loss,” he offers his condolences. “No matter how long a time may have passed since.”

“I am equally sorry for yours,” you manage to answer, staring into the red depths in your chalice instead of the blue ones you wish to be drowning in instead.

“Let us talk about something else. There is much that needs to be discussed, and I expect you wish to talk to the dwarf as soon as possible. Let me warn you. My people’s disagreements with dwarves go back many centuries, and I do have a hard time to overcome my prejudices,” he easily admits, eyes far gone. “They have awoken and drawn many a calamity in their greed. Yet it is not my preconception speaking when I ask you to be cautious. I know the dwarves of Erebor better than any other of my kind, having lived close to and dealt with them for so long a time. Thorin Oakenshield’s grandfather, Thrór, was King Under the Mountain when the dragon came. It was his salvation, perhaps, as much as it was his people’s doom. He had not been himself for quite some years then. I tried to intervene when it began; however, the dwarves did not wish to listen to advice they received from an elf. Much time passed, and when they finally realized and acknowledged that he had fallen ill with a sickness of the mind it was too late to help him. His greed for gold had surpassed that which is natural in dwarves. I myself suspect that this was the doing of the Arkenstone. It was only after he found it that he began to change.”

He remains silent after that, gaze lost in the distance, and you cannot help but stare at him.

“You… you think that Oakenshield will fall prey to the same sickness?” you finally ask when he does not continue.

“I do believe so, yes,” he confirms, and his eyes return to pierce into yours.

Breathing is quite the challenge, but – somehow – you manage.

“Quite likely he already has. He is quite similar to his grandfather in many aspects. Also, he will need the Arkenstone to call upon the other dwarves to follow him as their King. Either he will find it and its sickness will take him capture, or the search for the jewel will drive him mad.”

You shudder. Thorin Oakenshield is not someone you wish to imagine having fallen prey to madness – especially not if armies of dwarves are following him in it.

“However, there is more,” Thranduil continues and you close your eye. Can it possibly get worse?

“A dragon sat upon that treasure for many years. All those who desire gold in the slightest will be taken ill with dragon fever, another lust for gold.”

It can.

“Thus… the hobbit will be the only one who might be reasoned with,” you conclude, weakly.

“Indeed.” The King empties his chalice and rises to refill it, waiting until he has sat down again before asking: “Do you still wish to attempt reasoning with the dwarf?”

“I do not wish to bring war upon my people, and my children. I do not feel I have a choice, not with how dearly we need what was promised to us.”

“You still have hope left that he will listen.”

Another statement.

You clearly hear how little he thinks of that, and it hurts, but you manage to bury those emotions. They are better not dwelt on. _At all_.

“Hope was what gave me the strength to live on after my wife died,” you answer, desperately trying to remind yourself of dear, beautiful, kind Idun who you loved with all your heart, and who was taken from you giving birth to your youngest daughter.

It was the mercy of the Valar that Tilda survived.

“I wish I had hope left as well,” Thranduil admits. “I have given up on it long ago. Too much happened, I lost too many and made mistakes that can never be atoned for. Go and talk to the dwarf. I wish I could give you advice on how to reason with him, for no matter how many grudges I might be holding, I have learned through experience how to barter with the creations of Aulë. Were Thorin Oakenshield not loathing me so much for not forcing my people to throw themselves against the wrath of a dragon, we would have reached an understanding by now. However, I have also learned by experience that there is no reasoning with those having fallen prey to the Arkenstone. May the Valar be with you in your attempt. It would surely be for the better.”

With that he rises and puts his chalice onto a small table, before striding towards the opening of the tent.

“I will send for a horse to be brought to you.”

With that he is gone.

You sit in stunned silence for a few moments, before regaining your composure. Placing your chalice next to his you rise as well and step outside.

A dark-haired elf is waiting close by, holding the reigns of a white horse. You walk over to where he is standing, as your sharp eyes are darting across your people in their striving to improve their shelters and finding Týr, who is sitting on the broken remains of a wall.

When he realises you are watching him he comes darting over, smiling at you.

“Bain is with Tilda and Sigrid,” he explains before you have the chance to ask. “We did as you told us. I gave Da the numbers. He is waiting for you outside the City, talking to some of the men. It did seem to be awfully important.”

“That it is,” you return his smile. “Thank you for your help, Týr. I shall find your father, and then ride for the Mountain. Would you care to help Bain?”

“On my way,” he shouts even as he is darting off, and you cannot supress the fond smile as you reach the elf and thank him, before mounting the horse. Bain and Týr have always gotten along rather well, and your daughters too like him.

You run the horse until you come upon Njord and about a dozen of the men, standing just outside the old city gates, absorbed in a heated discussion. They interrupt themselves when they see you arrive, and as you dismount Njord moves to meet with you.

“All those present are ready to help should the need arise,” he confirms what you were hoping and fearing to hear. “Vidar and Porr have volunteered to return to assess the weapons, to say which of them can be used. Vidar will take over the archers, and Porr and I are responsible for those fighting in close combat. Thus we can separate into two groups if necessary. Orvar is going to stay with the women and children to protect them, and everyone else has offered their help in training, should we have the time for that. We agreed not to assign you a position, for you surely will be wherever needed most.”

You feel a heavy weight lift from your shoulders just as another one settles there.

“Thank you for your help and trust, Njord. I will ride for the Mountain now.”

“Then I wish you the best of luck. Do not worry, I shall take care of matters here.”

You feel deep gratitude for having such a loyal and able friend even as the dwarf rejects you moments after you have arrived, claiming that he shall not stand by his word. Thranduil is about to wage war on those dwarves, and no matter how much they may be outnumbered – they are mad, you saw it in Oakenshield’s eyes and heard it in his voice. There is nothing you can do for them; not while your own people are your responsibility.

If Thranduil is going to challenge the dwarves, you will stand with him.

When you return the elven King is waiting for you atop his elk, his fine features betraying that he already knows, before you have even opened your mouth.

“He will give us nothing.”

“Such a pity,” he mocks, and his voice is like honey again, but cutting into your heart like the blades he is carrying. “Still, you tried.”

You cannot tell whether the latter is meant to be acknowledgement or ridicule.

“I do not understand. _Why?_ Why would he risk war?”

The old eyes are knowing and show no surprise when behind you, the dwarves break the bridge.

“It is fruitless to reason with them.” _As I said_.

He does not need to voice that, you hear it plain and clear in his undertone.

“They understand only one thing. We attack at dawn. Are you with us?”

He rides away, then, and you feel a deep, distant pain at how he treats you now. After the conversation in the tent you thought-

Well, you certainly do not want to dwell on _what exactly_ you thought, and it is better forgotten anyway. Thus you follow him back into the broken city but not to the tent, instead returning the horse and then meeting with Njord, Porr, Vidar, Orvar and Frey.

You discuss the matter for a few moments and then the city breaks into bustling activity as you send your children and Týr to spread the word that every able man is to come to the armoury.

You are not sure what you expected. Not that everyone but Alfrid would comply, you suppose, but you give it no more thought. Instead you help Njord in distributing the weapons as Porr and Vidar allocate the weapons to those who come to fight, while Frey is setting up a space to do some sparring and go through the most important movements; Orvar being the one to explain the situation to the women and children.

When everyone has assembled to practise and go through the positions they are to take in a battle with Njord and Vidar the same elf who gave you the horse comes for you, and delivers a message from his King.

You are to return to the tent, for strategy discussions.

Sighing you inform Porr of where you are going and why, before sheathing the sword you have been training with and following the call.

However cutting his words at the gate may have been, you cannot help but remain here when you have the opportunity to spend time with him, although you do not know how he will treat you.

The sun has not even set and risen again since you have met him, and already you are lost.

Oh bother.

He awaits you seated again, chalice in hand and gaze lost in what you assume are ages past.

When you enter his eyes find yours once more and he motions for you to sit down. “I left your wine as it was. If you are hungry, please, help yourself.”

Your reach for your chalice before taking a seat, trying to ignore the knot your stomach has turned into when he talks of food.

His voice is soft when he raises it again.

“Please allow me to apologize for my demeanour earlier. When my father perished and I suddenly was to be King I quickly learned the difference behaviour may make. I have crafted a mask of coldness and calm, for it was what I found to be most effective. After so many years I fall into what has become my second nature whenever I act as King of Mirkwood without being aware of it. I treated you differently before, and I did not want to unsettle you with the change in my demeanour. I should have warned you.”

“You did not unsettle me,” you manage to answer, attempting to placate him. _Nor did you hurt me_. It is a lie if there ever was one.

He gives you a rueful smile. “But I did. It was not my intention, and I hope you will forgive me. I have found myself to be rather fond of your quick smiles and calm attitude. Also, your skill with a bow intrigues me. Archers I have always given my greatest respect, as bow and arrow are a weapon my people think highly of. I would ask you to be my friend, especially since I expect Dale and Mirkwood to work together in the future. Also, I would rather walk into battle with a friend by my side, not just an ally.”

You stare at him, a little dumbstruck, and he laughs softly.

It is a sound like thousand silver bells, pearling through the air and making you shudder.

“The hobbit is friends with the dwarves, no doubt. Do you think that strange?”

You shake your head – having momentarily lost the ability to form words – even as you wonder what he is getting at.

“So why should a man and an elf not be friends?”

The delicate eyebrows have slowly been climbing his forehead, and once again the corners of his lips are twitching with amusement.

Well.

The smile you give him in lieu of an answer seems to be enough, it seems, and the topic changes to the upcoming battle, then. You talk strategy and ways of taking dwarves capture, in order to maybe sway Oakenshield’s mind, and it happens sometime between the wizard showing up and the ensuing discussion that you realize that Thranduil has not stayed for what he no longer has claim on, but to aid you in receiving what your people need to survive. You see it in the way he tenses when the wizard talks of an army of orcs, even as he discredits the old wanderer, and then slowly, barely noticeably, exhales in relief. Relief that he has stayed here, where he will be able to defend Dale and his realm, where his army will be able to prevent a shadow you had thought long gone from taking the Lonely Mountain and reclaiming Angmar. You see it in his eyes, which are no longer calm, but turbulent oceans, that – despite his attitude – he is convinced the wizard is right.

That he is relieved he stayed so that he can protect _you_.

It warms your heart, even as ice cold fear grips it when you realize what this means.

Sauron is back, threatening the free peoples of Middle-Earth.

The evening passes in a blurry, and come morning you ride to the Mountain with the elven King, both your armies in position.

The following discussion is long, fruitless and fraying your nerves as Thranduil takes delight in ignoring the wizard and riling up the dwarves who have just arrived, until the Defiler’s troops charge. They then march to attack Dale, and the rest of the battle is a blur of fear and defiance, and the _need_ to protect your children.

You see him, sometimes, coming upon the orcs like a nightmare, but there is no time to stop and admire his skill and the deadly dance in which he is clearly leading.

At some point his son arrives, riding into Dale with another elf, but you have no opportunity to dwell on that as you are trying to save your children, and those of your people who are still alive.

Evening has not nearly fallen when the Eagles arrive and drive the remaining orcs off, still you feel more tired than ever in your life. Sending Bain and Týr to gather those old enough to help, and Sigrid to help prepare the Grand Hall for the wounded while Tilda is to find the other young ones and stay with one of the elderly, you try to assess the situation.

More than half of those who survived the Dragon’s attack have fallen, and there is blood everywhere, but you know – there is no time to mourn now.

Your heart sings with relief when you see Njord, worse for wear and exhausted, but _alive_ , and Vidar along those who have rallied in the old marketplace, where you are waiting. Vidar has led the archers, but they, too, had to engage in close combat, and Njord left with half of the swordfighters when you had to split up, while Porr went with your group.

Trying not to think about the moment you saw him fall you walk over to where Njord and Vidar are leaning against a wall.

“What do we do?” your best friend ask, and you know that – in this moment – you are not his friend but his leader, and that he is waiting for orders.

This is no time to complain, no matter how little you might like that.

“We take those who are still able to walk and help and split them into three groups, one who can write in each. Every body is to be examined. Still living orcs are to be killed, our wounded treated as best as possible, elves and men, and the dead listed. I have sent Bain and Týr for those old enough to help. I wish we could spare them the sight, but we are too few as it is.” Your jaw clenches painfully as you grind your teeth; however, Njord and Vidar offer not blame but understanding. “The women and girls will prepare the Grand Hall for the wounded, who are taken there. Those who know about healing are to treat them.”

Njord inclines his head. “I will take those who fought with me and the boys. Vidar takes his archers, it is the largest group of survivors, and you take your warriors and the women who cannot help with the treating. I will cover the northern streets, down to the Market.”

You nod. “Then my group shall see to the Eastern half of the lower streets. West of Stone Street is your sector, Vidar.”

The elderly warrior simply nods and with that each of you leaves to find those he is to take with him. Njord explains the situation to the boys who have come with Bain and Týr and they nod, faces grim, and follow him, while you ask those of the women who know how to tend to wounds to return to the Grand Hall and instruct Sigrid and the other girls on how to prepare it while the others are to follow you.

Night has long fallen when you finally drive your blade through the neck of the last orc – prevention is better than cure, after all, and you have taken care of every foe that way – before stepping into the marketplace on your way to the Grand Hall, helping two of your men to carry an elf who is crying in agony. Which is quite understandable, really, for it must hurt something awful to jostle the arrow lodged in his lower abdomen.

Finally being able to breathe you begin contemplating to call for some of the surviving elves – are they not said to be the best healers in Middle-Earth? – when, suddenly, your world grows a little brighter as Thranduil steps around a corner.

He looks exhausted, black blood smeared across his face, and his eyes are as haunted as your own, yet when his fall upon the injured elf life returns to his worn features.

“Where are you taking him?”

“The Grand Hall,” you answer as he relieves your men, helping you carry the warrior. “Our wounded are there – some elves, too.”

“How many?”

 _So you do allow yourself to hope, sometimes_.

“I am afraid I do not know. The others carried them here, mostly, while I was making sure those vile creatures are all dead. We had scribes take down every body, however, I will give you those notes to look into as soon as I have them.”

“We care for the wounded first,” he declares as you put the elf onto one of the sickbeds the girls and women have prepared.

Sigrid rushes over to where you are kneeling, and when Thranduil instructs you to hold the wounded warrior after severing the shaft of the arrow as close to the body as possible both of you comply without asking.

The dark-haired elf – he looks to be quite young – screams when Thranduil pushes the arrow the remaining way through before pulling it out, beginning to murmur words in a beautiful, melodic language the moment he has thrown the weapon to the side.

The injured Firstborn’s laboured breathing calms and he seems to have fallen asleep when his King’s words stop flowing as he rises, and a little colour already seems to have returned to the wounded one’s cheeks.

It is in this very moment that another elf steps into the Grand Hall, a red-head you remember seeing on the shores of the lake, together with the prince. Her eyes are red and swollen, no matter her stony countenance, but when Thranduil asks her to gather those of the forces who survived, and to send someone to the forest for Athelas, she complies.

He continues to help the wounded, be they elves or men, and you follow him the entire time, doing as he instructs you. All but those who are tending to the injured have gone to sleep by now as well as they can, Sigrid and Tilda being curled around each other in a corner of the hall.

Your body feels heavy, like stone, and moving is taking more strength then you have, yet only when the sun is high in the sky – by then news of the death of Thorin Oakenshield and his heirs have long reached you, but you cannot bring yourself to care – the following day you allow yourself to break down, after Thranduil has seen to all of the wounded once at least.

As if through mist you hear him give orders in that language you do not understand, and you try to keep your eyes open until you feel warm, strong arms around your shoulders.

Then everything goes black.

 

\---

 

You wake to the sound of a quill on parchment, and a soft breath against your cheek.

Fighting to open your eyes you instinctively wrap your arms around Tilda, who is curled up against you, only to find yourself staring at Thranduil’s tired features as he writes, eyebrows drawn together in concentration.

For a few moments you simply enjoy being able to stare at him until he raises his head, pale blue eyes finding yours.

A relieved smile curls around his lips, and some of the tension in his beautiful face melts away.

“I was worried,” he casually states as he puts away the quill and rises, only to sit down next to you on what seems to be a cot. “You were unconscious for three days. I could not find any source but exhaustion, still- …”

His eyes are a little too dark for the attempted nonchalance in his voice, his lips tight, and you feel yourself smile before you even think about doing so.

“I did not wish to worry you,” you apologize softly.

“I know.” His voice is as soft, and if his fingers brush yours for a short moment, you do not mention it. “Your children were fretting, too. Bain tried to be strong for his sisters, but he confessed his fears to me when they slept.”

“You looked after them?” Your gratitude is immense.

His eyes are smiling now. “Would you have taken care of Legolas, if he had been a child and I the one to lie without consciousness?”

“Of course!”

The soft smile betrays that he knew the answer even before you gave it, and you understand.

“Come, sit so that you can drink. You must be thirsty.”

Indeed your throat feels drier than ever before, and when he helps you sit – without waking Tilda, one might add, which is quite a feat – you allow yourself to enjoy the feeling of his arms around your shoulders for the moment. He then hands you a chalice filled with clean, pure water and you drink like one who has been dying of thirst, while your eyes never leave his face.

You feel your cheeks grow warm when you realize, until you notice how he is looking at you the same way, and it is enough to give him a tired, warm smile. This time he takes your hand, and for the moment, you care for nothing else.

 

\---

 

It takes you four more days to recover, and when you are allowed to move again it is to help with the construction work already well under way.

Njord was the one to negotiate the contract, explaining that he did not want to live in that blasted mountain, thank you very much, and that Dáin, new King of the dwarves, has offered his help in rebuilding Dale. You will also be given half of the hobbit’s share of the treasure if you return the Arkenstone, for the other half is to go to Thranduil.

When he takes no more than the heirlooms of his people and offers the rest to yours you are not even surprised, if immensely grateful.

He is a steady help in the chaos of the attempt to rebuild as much as is possible before winter strikes and gathering provisions for the cold months, and whenever he has to leave for his own kingdom he returns as soon as his responsibilities allow.

The others made you King of Dale while you lay unconscious, without giving you the chance to object, and while you never wanted this – there is nothing you can do but help in every way possible. Njord and Vidar you name your advisors, so that not _everything_ has to go through you, and you barely find time to care for your children with all the duties you suddenly have.

It is a relief indeed that Thranduil takes pleasure in looking after them, and that they like him.

He has told you in a quiet moment that Legolas left, unable to return home, and you wrapped your arms around him when you saw the desperation in his eyes. He shed a tear or two, in your arms, and then took to caring for _your_ children all the more emphatically.

Winter is a retrieve and a curse, for the reconstruction work slows down as the temperatures fall colder; however, Thranduil has to return to Mirkwood for a few months, leaving you alone with your duties, and when he comes back it is spring.

Tilda and Sigrid run towards him when they see him arrive with a small group of elves, and you cannot possibly hold back the smile that makes it to your lips.

Winter was long and cold and lonely, and you had too much time to think.

You know now, only to well, what you wish would have stayed hidden underneath workloads and chaos, but there is no mistaking the way your heart flutters when you no more than think of him. Tilda picks some of the flowers cautiously beginning to grow on the slopes of the Mountain now that the dragon’s curse is gone and weaves a garland with the help of her sister. Idun was the one to show Sigrid how to do that, and still – that old pain in your heart is duller than ever when Tilda, after Thranduil has lifted her onto his hip, snatches off his crown and replaces it with the garland.

The elves accompanying him stare openly when he laughs and puts the crown onto her head instead, and you try to ignore the way your heart is beating way too fast at the sight.

You go to meet him, then, and officially welcome him back to Dale, offering that he stay in the newly built palace – with you.

He accepts, pale blue seas whirling with mirth, and it is only in the evening that the two of you find time to sit in front of the fireplace, alone, after the children have gone to bed.

“I was lonely without you,” you admit carelessly, before gasping for air when you realize what you have just said. “I-”

“So was I.” He smiles, interrupting you, and moves to sit closer to you.

You tense, not knowing what to do. You know what you feel for him, yes, and you know that he has been treating you unlike any other (as far as he can tell), and still – he is male, and always will be.

His face is open when his eyes find yours.

“Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“A- … a little, yes.”

“Do you want me to leave?” he then inquires, and you feel your heart give a panicked jolt.

“No!”

The pale blue oceans are calm and at the same time roaring with emotions.

“I am well aware of what men think about males lying with other males,” he says lightly, looking into the flames instead of your eyes. You do realizes that he does this for your comfort, not his own. “For my people, on the other hand, that has never been strange or unwelcome. Our lives are long and often lonely. We take comfort in who we can, and those who find love – do not forgo it because of what properties the other may have, but pursue it for who the other _is_.”

He then is quiet, for some time, and you dare not speak up either.

“I am quite aware of what you feel for me. It has been brewing between us from the moment we met, and I do feel the same way for you. I would love to act on it; however, this is your choice. You must decide whether you can move on from what your people think of this matter. This would be handled discreetly, of course, should you choose to accept me. I would not let any harm come to you.”

Your heart is beating too loudly, too fast, and when he suddenly turns to look at you again you forget to breathe.

His eyes are drawing you in now, pulling you down, and his voice is sweeter and smoother than ever, luring and filled with promises.

“What say you, Bard of Dale? Would you allow me to pursue _you_?”

You might have squeaked a little at that, which is terribly embarrassing; however, your thoughts are racing, finding every reason to say no and discarding it until-

“I-I have children,” you say, and he does not even chide you for stating the obvious, “children who loved their mother- …” You interrupt yourself as your thoughts slam to a stop all at once, and when you continue your voice betrays the lump in your throat you are trying to talk around. “ _I_ loved their mother.”

“I loved Legolas’ mother as well, with all my heart,” he answers, still smiling, and once again silence falls for a few minutes. “I am quite convinced, however, that she would have wanted me to approach you.”

“B-But how- … _why_?” You cannot understand.

He cocks his head, then, as he slowly asks: “If you had died, and she lived – would you have wanted her to find happiness again, had she met someone to share it with? Someone to help her raise the children, and make her forget all the pain you death has brought upon her?”

“I- … yes,” you admit, sensing where this is going.

“I am convinced Idun felt the same way.” Your breath hitches when he says her name. “Thus… should you choose to accept me, you would not betray her, but heeding her wishes instead.”

“How-” _did he know what you were thinking?_

He gives you a soft smile. “I have gone through this many times, until I could accept it as true for myself. We have shared the same fate in many ways, and I understand your concern better than you might believe.”

You do not know what to say.

He is right.

However, there _is_ one other thing.

“I am mortal. I am going to die, while you will live on. How… How can I do this to you, bind you to myself knowing that, in the end, it will only bring you pain? I cannot willingly let you go through what you already have to live with again.”

His smile is sad this time, but no less honest.

“My wife was immortal, like me, and she was taken from me, like your mortal one. Do not mistake me, I am painfully aware that I shall lose you too, after too short a time. However, after everything that has happened, after everything I have gone through and had to bear, there is one thing I have learned, the hard way and with more than a little heartbreak. Everything will come to an end one day, whether it is good or bad. That is a truth to accept for every thinking creature, and even us immortals have to live with it. I have seen many things end, and it has brought me many regrets. I am old, Bard, old and scarred and broken. Only experience has taught me to stand tall and strong, and be the King my people need. I have not acted many times I should have, and have let many good things end without ever enjoying them. I have regretted so much and- … I would rather not regret never experiencing the love I might share with you, no matter for how painfully short a time.”

There is a single tear running down his pale cheek and you cannot help but raise your hand to brush it away.

He is right. Thinking of the pain it might bring you never to have what is so freely offered… The only thing to keep you from accepting is yourself.

“I… I am scared,” you admit and his hand finds yours on his cheek as a soft smile curls his lips.

“Love is always scary. There is so much on stake, so much to lose. However, I would rather live with the fear than losing the love I could have had before ever gaining it.”

Your heart flutters.

What he is saying-

He is breaking down your walls, taking everything you have been telling yourself those past months and tearing it apart. There is but one thing left to do, one choice to make-

“Promise me you will look after my children once I am gone,” you whisper even as you turn to face him.

“I will do that either way,” he vows without hesitation and, slowly, you turn your hand underneath his to wrap your scarred, rough fingers around his delicate long ones.

The sight alone is enough to bring up another insecurity.

“What is the matter?” he asks softly and you close your eyes, mortified, as you try to explain what is ailing you.

“How… how can I possibly ever match up to you?”

His eyes darken with understanding as he, too, turns. Softly he pulls his fingers from yours only to let both of his thumbs softly caress you cheeks.

“There is nothing to live up to in love. All I expect from you is to give me what you freely offer, and it will be more than enough.”

His gaze is piercing as his eyes are pleading you to understand what he is trying to say.

“I love you. I love you because you are beautiful, inside and outside.”

You open your mouth to disagree, however, one pale finger in your lips stops you.

“You are beautiful in ways I cannot even describe. I… if I wanted to love an elf, I would. But I love you, Bard of Dale, and that alone should prove your beauty to yourself if it is really me you wish to please.”

His smile is dazzling, bright and promising.

“I will be honest. Never have I desired to feel the soft scrape of a beard on my skin… until I met you. And it is a most intriguing sensation indeed, I have to admit.” His thumbs run over your sideburns before finding your ears. Your heart is stuttering in your chest. “Round ears… as intriguing as a beard. Our ears are quite sensitive… I will have to find your sensitive spots all by myself. It is a challenge I am looking forward to.”

The pale blue oceans are dark now, darker than ever, drawing you in, and you have trouble breathing with him looking at you like that.

“Your eyes are the same colour as a doe’s – beautiful, if not as peaceful. Your body – intoxicating. However, those are not the only kinds of beauty you have to offer. I admire your strength, your passion, your skill. I _adore_ you, Bard. Never have I met anyone quite like you. Please… _please_ allow me to give you all I have to give, for I never want to regret anything when it comes to you.”

You take a deep breath.

Your choice has long been made, you realize, although your heart and head are still at war. However, your heart will win in the end, you know that now.

“No regrets,” you agree, and faster than you are able to comprehend he has pulled you in his laps so that you are sitting astride his long, muscular thighs.

“Kiss me,” he breathes as he wraps his arms around your shoulders, one hand sneaking into your long hair. “Kiss me, Bard of Dale, and I shall never let you go again.”

You understand that this is the final step, and that you will have to take it.

Your heart is racing as you carefully cradle his face in your hands, your fingers which look so misplaced (and yet so _right_ ) on his pale perfect skin softly caressing the flushed cheeks. It truly is quite the sight to behold, the elven King thusly flustered and open, and you do not even want to supress the smile sneaking onto your lips as you slowly incline your head until your mouth meets his.

Your life may be short, compared to his, but as he carefully moves his lips against yours, holding you close, you know – he will always cherish you, no matter how many years he might live, and there will be no regrets.

For neither of you.


End file.
